


Mamma's Doll

by TheClassyCorvid



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Relationships, Family Issues, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28246542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheClassyCorvid/pseuds/TheClassyCorvid
Summary: Deep down, Caroline could never forgive Victor for shattering her dream of a daughter.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Mamma's Doll

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings for discussion of deaths, emotional abuse, and implicit nonviolent transphobia apply. There's also discussion of Victor and Elizabeth's gross arranged marriage.
> 
> I don't like Victor's parents, but I do find it interesting how he describes them as incredibly good people. That's pretty realistic because many parents can be abusive and do irreparable harm, but also do kind things. Which just makes it harder to discern the damage they've done, and can also be a source of internal conflict for the victims. (Speaking from experience.)
> 
> Obligatory disclaimer that, although I hope it's clear enough, that these topics are not romanticized. This is a very dysfunctional family that puts up a facade.

“We’ll have children, of course,” Alphonse said.

The command was a graveyard elegy, somber and tremulous. 

He stared over the balcony railing. Icicle eyes cut along the wobbly outline of snow-dusted mountains, drawn by a shaky hand in an absentminded scribble. His teeth worked around the porcelain stem of his pipe.

“Oh, of course,” Caroline echoed, pounding the enthusiasm. A rush flooded her like Lake Geneva water, so cold that it blister-burned. On impulse, she sidled closer to Alphonse. Their sleeves brushed. Alphonse slid one stone arm from behind his back to place his hand on Caroline’s waist.

An eastern wind teased through her hair and tangled a few wispy strands in her eyelashes. She stared hard through the blur. It stung. 

“I’ve always wanted a daughter,” she said. The mountains became a purple-and-blue bruise smudging the bottom of the sky. “I think I should like nothing more. I couldn’t bear raising a little boy.” 

“And why is that?”

The sentiment was so natural that she never expected anything but wholehearted agreement. She didn’t know why.

“Throughout my life I’ve cared for the young sons of neighbors and family,” she said slowly. “I don’t _hate_ them. But they’re rowdy and stubborn. There’s a wildness in them that I could never suppress. They always seemed to discern my fear and attacked their efforts with twice the vigor.”

Memories tasted sour.

“The daughters never behaved so. They’re ever so darling and polite. Perhaps I didn’t have many friends in childhood, but my circle of girl-friends was in resounding agreement that we would be mothers to mild, pretty little dolls.” 

Alphonse’s other hand eased to his pipe. He played his red pocked fingers along the bowl and twisted the pipe from side to side. Porcelain ground between his teeth.

“Are you so certain you’d have a daughter, my dear? What are you to do if you bear a son?”

Caroline blanched. A son? Her first child in particular, a son? The thought had been a dry seed atop stone, never taking root. 

Alphonse went on. “Surely we must have a son while you are still young. Our name can’t continue with daughters. You know this, don’t you, love? It would be a shame for the Frankensteins to end here; a calculated murder of a lineage.”

The words were sensible. They hurt like a hearty slap that would leave a handprint in its wake for days. Caroline’s head grew leaden. She searched for faces in the weathered stone floor.

“I suppose it is the decision of chance, after all,” she said. She ironed out the embarrassed hitch in her voice with a tittering schoolgirl laugh that rattled in her throat like a lost fluttering moth beating powdered wings.

“Not chance. Nothing comes by chance. Everything that men can’t decide comes by the will of Providence.”

“You’re right,” Caroline said, softening Alphonse with the words he relished hearing. “I only hope that his will is to grant us a beautiful daughter.”

She stepped closer to placate. Her heel scraped the stone. She wedged her hand into the crook of Alphonse’s arm. He was a statue. Impervious and immovable. 

Caroline glanced up at his ruddy face. Wrinkles bunched like loose rubber around his eyes. The tiny blue pinpricks were lined in red and buried deep like tiny marbles lost in dough. He didn’t look at her.

Caroline breathed a sigh and let it fizzle low in her chest. 

A home vibrating with the raucous activities of children was centuries away. When she imagined herself cradling a child, the picture was fuzzy and dim. It was a fancy, a watercolor fairytale illustration, a homely Madonna. The face of the mother was a void and not Caroline’s, but the comforting, sweet-smelling weight of the angelic child was soft in her arms.

Warmth bled into her skin beneath her cotton sleeves like kisses. The sensation was too real to be hope.

* * *

The centuries between that day on the balcony overlooking the Alps and motherhood rammed together like a string of beads. The eternity between them smeared into months. The memory was both from years ago and yesterday.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.” Caroline wrung her fingers together. One of her knuckles cracked. Flustered, she folded her hands and let them dangle in a limp knot in front of her skirt.

Alphonse counted roses on the wallpaper. His chapped fingers fondled the pipe bowl. They faltered.

“Having a child on travels is unwise. Surely, my dear, you would know.”

“We could go home. I wouldn’t mind. It’s a small disappointment compared to the thrill of parenthood, isn’t it? And we could resume our travels when the child has grown enough to agreeably tolerate them.”

“In years, Caroline?”

“It wouldn’t be that long. Time rushes so quickly.”

“If we settle at home and begin our family, that will mark a lifelong undertaking. When the first child has been weaned, you’ll give birth to another and repeat the process. Our plans will be forestalled indefinitely, until we’re too aged and frail to return to them. No, Caroline, dear, you must understand why our greatest need is to finish the trip as we’ve planned from the beginning.”

Caroline worked up a smile, the one she knew made her beam like a flushed schoolgirl and melted the edge of any annoyance Alphonse harbored.

“You’re right. I’d love nothing more than to continue traversing the world with you. There’s so much yet to see. It would be a pity to sacrifice that.”

Some of the trenches around Alphonse’s smile flattened. He inclined his head toward Caroline.

“That’s my dear, sweet girl. You’re a wonderfully bright thing; I always admired that about you.”

* * *

France, Holland and Austria passed in a tangle. Months rolled by like barrels, heavy and jarring and all the same.

The chaise clattered through Naples. Caroline doubled over on the leather seat with skeleton-thin arms locked over her stomach. She wondered if her numb feet were even against the floor.

“Is the lady well?”

Alphonse bestowed an amiable smile upon the driver. “She’s fine. Thank you for your concern.”

Caroline sank against Alphonse’s side when the sensation of vertebrae popping loose like buttons from her spine collapsed her. Her brain was melting, sloshing through her skull in a stew. Everything around her was hollow. All that mattered was keeping her arms tight around herself to hold in her spasming guts before her belly split open and spilled her entrails over the floor. The heaviest sledgehammer in the world was driving a chisel and icepick into her hips to crack the bone in half like a walnut.

The ticking of hooves over cobblestone and the creaking of wheels and smacking of leather straps blended together under a tinny hum that buzzed in her head like a muffled siren.

Alphonse and the driver spoke. They could have been speaking Mandarin or Latin; Caroline didn’t know. Words were gibberish. 

She buried her face in Alphonse’s shoulder. Cold wind slapped outside. She was sweltering in her wraps, melting off like lard in a pot. 

Minutes, hours or days slogged by. The driver shouted something. The chaise jerked to a halt and stuttered backwards. Alphonse shuffled beside her. A big hand closed over her shoulder.

“Wake up, my dear. Can you walk?”

Caroline managed a nod, or thought she did. The hand shook her with firm persistence.

“Caroline?”

Then a resigned, tired sigh. An arm snaked beneath her to spatula her from the seat. Her head lolled and her feet dangled.

A sudden burst of sunlight painted the backs of her eyelids a sore glowing red. She slept.

* * *

The last time Caroline wept with such excruciating, soul-crushing agony was over the coffin of her father. 

She clutched the bundle of blankets to her chest and pressed it tight to push out the sobs that smothered her and choked like vomit. Her shoulders sank lower and lower. Her heart pounded in her head like a tolling church bell, overpowering the clamor around her. Everyone else faded into a gray backdrop. Caroline forgot she was their spectacle.

The baby was more beautiful than Caroline had ever considered possible. It was all suddenly real. Her dreams of motherhood were in her arms, soft and warm and wondrously small. Dark hair, dark eyes, puffy pink cheeks—perfect. 

Caroline had heard every other mother vehemently assert that her child was the most beautiful. They were all wrong. _Hers_ was the most beautiful.

It didn’t even matter if Alphonse was disappointed. He’d reminded Caroline every day that she mustn’t be dismayed by her petty spurned wishes if the child was a boy. Caroline wondered—hoped—with glee that Alphonse was as dejected as Caroline was warned she would feel. 

She’d known from the start she’d be blessed and given the single thing she’d longed for throughout so many years. 

She should have been overjoyed. Yet, somehow, through her cracked sobs as she clutched a daughter to her chest, something sprung an inky, metallic leak deep in her core. 

She screwed her eyes shut and squeezed the baby closer to bury her nose in the blanket folds. She didn’t answer when Alphonse told her to let go.

* * *

Victor was perfect.

As time passed, he looked more and more like a priceless painted porcelain doll. Caroline delighted in that.

He was her doll; a fragile plaything to fuss over and painstakingly dress in darling frocks and satin stockings and jaunty ribboned bonnets. The responsibilities that came packaged with motherhood were tiresome, but the decorations were a respite. 

She carried him everywhere, even when he could walk without the support of a guiding hand. She toted him along like a trophy decked out in velvet bows and lace. Whenever a stranger crooned over him, Caroline reveled in the praise as though it were intended for her instead.

Other mothers remarked in amazement on what a passive little thing he was, stunned by how he submitted with no tears to a noisy life of traveling and shuffling between many unfamiliar arms for appraisal. He was like a doll, only staring at his crowded world through wide blank eyes.

This comment in particular gave Caroline endless joy. When he was handed back to her after reverberant rounds of praise, and she could rub her nose into his curls and squeeze him, she wished he would never grow older.

* * *

The black tide of dread in Caroline swelled larger with each passing day, and often left her hands cold. 

She’d fallen victim to the temptation of stretching out the morning routine longer and longer. It didn’t really take an hour to brush Victor’s hair and peruse the bureaus for a frock that suited her daily fancy. 

When she pulled back Victor’s sheaf of curls to tie it off with a big purple ribbon, Victor dropped his head forward. She lost her hold on the bunch of ringlets, and they splayed over his shoulders again.

“What’s the matter, darling?”

“What do I wear today, Mamma?”

Caroline gathered his hair into her hand again and twisted it into the ribbon. 

“Your rose dress is very pretty, isn’t it? You’ll match Mamma. She has lovely roses on her dress, too.”

“May I wear a new thing?”

Caroline’s smile thinned. She fidgeted with the bow. 

“Your violet dress would match Mamma nicely.”

“Different?”

“Dear,” Caroline said. A stern note lowered her voice. “Let’s not be fussy. Mamma chose pretty dresses for her darling. Is that all right?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite fine.” Tenderly, Caroline folded Victor backward into her lap. She peppered his head with kisses. “You know Mamma does her best to please you, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mamma.”

She cuddled Victor. A pinpoint dose of brand-new poison gnawed in her gut, making her feel as though she were starving but couldn’t be soothed.

* * *

Victor leaned his chin on the corner of the bed. His eyes fixed on Caroline. In the sun that cut through the window, the eyes were a strange, entrancingly dark blue, like deep ocean water where light scatters and everything is nearly black. Caroline was stricken with the fear of drowning.

“Yes, darling?”

Victor blinked. It gave Caroline enough time to resurface and breathe.

“Do you want me to grow to be like Papa?”

Caroline fumbled. 

“It depends on how you mean, doesn’t it? I should be very proud if you grew to have his enterprise and wisdom. But fathers are more meant to be models for sons. You ought to study your mother with the same interest, and learn to incorporate my character into your own.” Her voice dropped into a teasing sing-song. “Someday you’ll have a home and husband and children to care for as well.”

“No.” 

“You say that now, but you’ll certainly change your mind. That’s what we do, after all. Homes are built on our shoulders. We leave a few things for the men out of courtesy. Otherwise they grow restless for want of purpose.”

Victor mulled over this, chewing the thought like stale bread.

“What do mammas do?”

“Mammas love their children. We dress them, and feed them, and teach them to walk, and help raise them to be good and strong of character.” 

“That makes mammas?”

“Yes.”

“What do papas do?”

“Papas talk of education and power. They serve as figureheads in our homes. They read antiquated ideas and invent new rules to impose.”

“I want to be like Papa.”

Caroline’s gut churned. Her fingers went icy.

“Why don’t you want to be like Mamma instead?”

“Girls grow into mammas.”

“That’s right.” It hung in the air like a shrouding mist. 

Victor steeped in silence. His eyes sank halfway shut. He gazed absently through his lashes at the wall.

Caroline succumbed to the urge to scoop him up. Feeling as though bits of her soul were crumbling loose, she lifted him from the floor and bundled him in her lap. She pressed insistent kisses to the soft cheeks.

“You’re the prettiest little thing,” she said. She caressed his shiny curls. “You’re perfect. Did Mamma ever tell you how much she prayed for you? Don’t ever change, darling. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. You understand, don’t you?”

Victor rested his head against her shoulder. Caroline locked her arms around him and pushed her forehead against his hair.

* * *

Caroline shifted the basket of paper-wrapped pork and apples to her other arm. She forgot what she was saying when she cast a brief glance back at Victor. He scampered between fruit stands, ducking out of reach of the boy who trailed him in playful pursuit.

Caroline jostled herself and turned her attention back to the boy’s mother. She’d lost place in the discussion and the subject had wandered. The mother was sharing some common knowledge secret about roasting apples. Caroline couldn’t help looking back at Victor.

She’d striven to corral him from strange children. He was too delicate and pretty to romp outside with boys, muddying his shoes and skidding grass in his snow-white frock. 

Now that she watched him play, she vowed to never let it happen again. He seemed to forget he was wearing skirts and made no effort to politely prance. He laughed aloud and chased the boy, tumbling into the red dust at the side of the street and tackling just like any other little boy. Caroline’s stomach knotted like ship rigging.

She excused herself from the conversation and pinballed through the milling crowd to grab Victor’s sleeve. She reeled him in to keep him tethered by her side. Victor suffered himself to be drawn down the street.

“That wasn’t very ladylike, was it, dear?”

“No, Mamma.”

“It’s far too easy to be hurt when you frisk about so roughly. Mamma doesn’t want you to play with boys anymore. Do you understand?”

Even as she said it, Caroline knew there was no need to forbid Victor from keeping company with other children. Many girls frolicked alongside male classmates happily. Why should she deny Victor the same freedom? But the thought of seeing him somersaulting around with no consideration of coy timidity or courtesy sent a white-hot flame of irrational anger ripping through her with wildfire fury. It would be better for Victor to be isolated at home than to turn him loose for boisterous capers with boys.

“Yes, Mamma,” Victor said at last. It was bland.

Caroline gripped his soft hand tighter.

“I love you, darling. You’re Mamma’s dear little doll, aren’t you? You’re perfect just as you are.”

And he was.

* * *

“Mamma?”

Victor perched on the window seat, swinging one leg over the side of the cushion as he watched her with unsettling concentration. His picture book lay spread open beside him, pored over too many times and now as forgotten as a paperweight.

“When you married Papa, you got a new name.”

“That’s right. When I was a child, my name was Beaufort. After I married your papa, I took his family name and became Caroline Frankenstein.”

“Did you want to?”

“Of course, dear. Changing it meant I became a family with your father. And you’re a Frankenstein, as well.”

“Can I have a new name?”

Caroline selected a spool of black thread from the basket and unwound it. “When you marry, you’ll take your husband’s surname. You won’t be a Frankenstein anymore.”

“No. My husband has my name.”

“It doesn’t work that way, dear,” Caroline said past an amused hum. 

“Can I change my whole name?”

Her smile faltered. “Why would you wish to do that?”

Victor kept his head angled toward the window. Squares of red sunset flamed on his cheeks. 

“I don’t like it,” he said at last.

The spool of thread slipped. 

“Why is that?”

Victor pressed his forehead against the glass.

“It’s a girl’s name,” he mumbled.

“Of course it is.” Caroline’s mouth went dry as chalk. “Why should I have given you anything else? Your name is so becoming; especially of such a sweet, beautiful doll.”

“I don’t like it, Mamma,” Victor said patiently. 

“It’s a beautiful name,” Caroline replied. “I always thought it lovely, and knew it would be the one for my daughter someday.”

“What if Grandpapa thought the same about Beaufort?”

“Darling, that’s—that isn’t—it’s not at all the same—” Caroline floundered for a way to explain. Her heart was an egg yolk gripped in an unrelenting fist.

“What name do _you_ like, then?”

“Victor.”

Caroline shook her head. “Where did you think up such a thing as that? It tastes like wormwood on the tongue, darling.”

“I like it,” Victor said quietly. If she hadn’t seen his lips shape the words, she never would have known he spoke.

 _Victor._ Caroline wrapped the loose end of thread around the spool with a jerk. Her hand quivered.

* * *

Caroline confronted Alphonse after she’d tucked Victor into bed. She stole down the hall, palm cupped around the candle flame, and crept into Alphonse’s study.

“I’m terribly worried about our child,” she said. She clacked the candle plate to the desk and folded her arms around Alphonse’s neck. 

Alphonse continued leafing through his book. “What troubles you, pet?”

“I was asked tonight why I couldn’t rather have picked out a boy’s name.” Caroline sucked a stabbing breath through her teeth. “And if we can’t use ‘Victor’ instead.” The name was black pepper and bile tingling dirty on her tongue.

Alphonse raised his head. Two tiny candle flames glinted on his spectacles.

“Children have their fancies. That’s perfectly normal. But it’s our job to quell rebellion and instill a respect for reality. It would be cruel of us, as parents, to let delusions progress unchecked.”

“It isn’t just that alone,” Caroline said. She sniffled. “It’s the hatred of a favorite name I chose, the insistence in seeking out playmates, as though my amusements aren’t satisfying, and the disgust towards the frocks I’ve sewn with my own hands. Everything has become in stark opposition to me. Every action is meant to challenge me. Oh, Alphonse. It hurts terribly.”

Caroline’s eyes spilled over again, tracking hot rivers down her cheeks.

“I’ve tried so desperately to be the perfect mother to a perfect child. Where have I failed?”

“You haven’t failed, darling,” Alphonse soothed. “Don’t fret yourself so. I shall step in with discipline. This nonsense has lasted long enough.”

Caroline put her cheek against Alphonse’s shoulder. The stony hand caressed her head, smoothing back her hair.

* * *

Alphonse tramped down the stairs. Each board creaked like a gunshot under his weight. His footsteps grew louder. Caroline dunked a porcelain dish into the bucket. 

Alphonse approached from around the corner. He shook his head. 

Caroline already knew. Alphonse sighed, chilling the room like a cold gust. 

“Were this any other situation, I would find the determination almost admirable.”

Caroline’s heart dropped like a brick.

“Sometimes, when reason fails, the best way to shatter a fantasy is to indulge it. Give in to every request regarding the matter with utmost alacrity. Call him Victor. Pack away the dresses and have some trousers tailored. If he asks to play with other children, whisk him out the door and, if he complains of cold or want for a hot meal, remind him that you’re only obliging his request to frolic outside. It won’t take long for him to realize that receiving one’s desires can be incredibly unpleasant.”

“I don’t wish to cause discomfort, dear.” Caroline worried the inside of her cheek between her molars. “What if—he—doesn’t find it unpleasant and wishes for it to continue?”

“That won’t happen, love,” Alphonse assured. He pressed her hand fondly. “It will become too strange and overwhelming. Children crave the safety of familiarity.” 

“You’re right.” Caroline expelled a thin, shuddering breath. “I shall do my best to humor the situation. I only hope interest wanes quickly.”

Big soft petals of hope unfurled in her chest, warming her like an heirloom quilt in front of the hearth. Of course Alphonse was right. Victor would forget the endeavor within days once he’d believed he’d convinced her to cater to his whimsy. 

Caroline could sacrifice a few days of choosing dresses and carrying him to neighbors if it would restore her family to picturesque perfection.

* * *

The carriage rattled to a teeth-chattering halt. Caroline waited for Alphonse’s supporting hand before she stepped onto the dirt. Victor peered around Caroline, his keen gaze ticking sporadically from one thing to the next.

Caroline extended her arm in front of Victor like a roadblock, keeping him from spilling out of the seat.

Any other time, she would have hefted him into her arms to convey him along proudly, ready for the adoring eyes of strangers to fix on them. Now, the idea of being seen with him was more humiliating than being caught with a skirt torn up the back and no petticoat. She angled her shoulders and leaned forward to obscure the sight of him from any passersby.

“Stay behind Mamma, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mamma.” Victor slid off the seat and leather squeaked. The buckles on his shoes glinted merrily. He clambered out of the carriage with all his childish clumsiness, and once balanced on the ground, ducked behind Caroline and clung to her skirt.

“Don’t let go,” Caroline said. “If you run off, a horrid pirate might snatch you up and put you to work at sea.” 

“Pirate? Pirates here?”

Alphonse broke in. “Let’s postpone our questions, Victor.”

“Yes, Papa.”

The tour was as dismal as a funeral. Caroline maintained her polite smile and flavored her speech with silvery laughs, but her heart was frosting over. She was sandwiched between two mirror memories, one of carefree travels with Alphonse years ago and another, tarnished, of dismal treks. 

Caroline grasped Victor’s hand to haul him along. He pointed out colorful banners and clots of flowers that grew through cobblestone cracks. Caroline nodded and made hollow echoes of his excitement.

Victor beamed with new energy and cheer that Caroline had never seen. The limp doll-like compliance had blossomed into a vibrant enthusiasm. Color stood out in his cheeks, healthy and bright. His perpetual smile could have softened even the most dedicated misanthrope.

He could have been impossibly beautiful with that glow and sparkling smile. If only he didn’t wear the dumpy coat, the ugly trousers and horrid buckled shoes. But Alphonse had reminded her that Victor would grow weary of it all soon enough.

* * *

How soon was “soon enough”?

Caroline watched from the bench as Victor meandered. He trailed his fingers over papery tree bark and squatted by the roots to examine dry furled leaves and shiny granite-flecked pebbles. 

He thrilled in exploring these pockets of nature. He was being a child freely, bright with innocence and curiosity. 

If he romped about in the dress that matched hers, she could have appreciated his sweetness.

He trotted up to her, carrying a tiny yellow flower in his fist with careful attention, as if he’d been entrusted with a handful of rubies instead.

“Look, Mamma. I found this. It looks like the flower in your bonnet.”

“Isn’t that pretty. Put it back now, all right? Don’t touch anymore of those, dear.”

“Yes, Mamma.”

Victor turned his hand over, palm to the ground, and let the flower fall.

* * *

“Soon enough” stretched into months. Caroline stopped sewing. She turned over money for bigger coats and trousers as Victor outgrew the last ones. She didn’t know why she did it. 

Alphonse encouraged her tenacity.

“Some children are slow to learn,” he told her.

“Victor remembers poetry after reading it once and knows more Latin than Sarah’s college boy.”

“It won’t last forever, my dear.”

What could last forever? If Victor abandoned his role of a son, could Caroline ever manage to rekindle the same affection from before? Could she ever plait ribbons into his hair again without remembering how he’d scorned her?

He wasn’t the same child in a puffy dress who she’d lovingly cradled. He’d grown confident and noisy and happy. In appearance he was yet every bit the beautiful plaything she’d idolized. He still looked like a doll, but he wasn’t the one she’d asked for.

* * *

Alphonse bent before the dining table. His carved stone shoulders were hunched and his head hung over a crumpled letter. He heaved a few bereft sighs.

Piqued, Caroline approached him, scrubbing her hands on a rag.

“What’s wrong, dear? Who’s that from?”

“My brother-in-law,” Alphonse said. He shook his head. “My sister has passed. She left behind a little girl in Italy.”

Caroline’s heart shot up like a frog behind her tonsils. “A little girl?”

“My niece. He says her name is Elizabeth. He’s written that he intends to re-marry, and wishes to know if we are willing to take in the girl. He’ll send along money for her education.”

“Elizabeth,” Caroline breathed. “Darling, please. Please. The girl needs a mother more than anything. Oh, Alphonse, please write that I’ll take her. You _know_ how desperately I’ve longed for a daughter, you know that—”

“But you’ve already . . . “ Alphonse let it trail off and hang in silence when he realized the blunder. 

“It’s settled, then. I hate to think of the disgrace of casting family aside in times of need. Our home will welcome little Elizabeth.”

Caroline pitched back her head and laughed in winded exuberance. A blaze of joy gave her the lithe energy of a deer. She bounded forward in her haste to fling her arms around Alphonse, laughter bubbling rich and sparkling.

“Oh, darling, I hope she’s beautiful.”

* * *

Caroline’s spirit soared through golden clouds like a kite. She hummed as she folded Victor’s old dresses in neat stacks on the bed.

Victor peered around the doorframe.

“Mamma, are you singing?”

His eyes wandered to the mountains of floral-patterned ruffled frocks. He blanched. His fingers locked around the doorframe.

“What are those for?”

“Oh, you dear child. It’s too late for you to have these back now. These lovely clothes are for someone else.”

Victor tilted his head, still regarding the piles of dresses with suspicion.

“Someone else . . . ?”

“That’s right.” Caroline folded the rose-printed cotton dress. “Someone who will like them very much. Someone else can match Mamma.”

Victor shrank further behind the corner, suddenly as timorous as a mouse. 

“Who is it?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. I’ll have the most pretty present for my Victor tomorrow. Aren’t you eager to see it?”

“A present?”

Caroline smiled tenderly and wiped a crease from the skirt. “You know, dear, I’d always dreamed of having a daughter. I told your father that many years ago. But blessings do rain down on those who are patient. That’s a wise lesson for us to remember. Aren’t you happy for your good Mamma?”

“Yes,” Victor said, his voice small.

* * *

When Alphonse ushered the toddler through the front door, Caroline lost her breath and sense. The world closed in around her, shrinking to the size of the open door where the little girl stood. 

Caroline grabbed for the back of the chair to steady herself. The girl Alphonse led by the chubby hand was the most overwhelmingly beautiful child Caroline could have imagined. Dark curls, dark eyes, fat pink cheeks—perfect in every way. She was what Caroline could describe only as an angel. A precious, stunning angel.

Caroline rushed to the door and crashed to her knees in front of Elizabeth. Her skirts billowed like a tossed sheet. Caroline clutched the soft face between her palms.

“You’re darling,” Caroline whispered. Her eyes burned as if she’d rubbed them full of salt. “Darling little Elizabeth. My sweet girl. You’re home now, aren’t you? Home with your Mamma.”

Caroline scooped Elizabeth up, burying her nose in her hair to inhale the sweet scent of fresh linen. She crushed her close, locking her arms around her to cling to the dream for as long as she could. 

Alphonse rubbed Elizabeth’s head, rumpling her hair. “You’ve been welcomed warmly, haven’t you?”

“Of course she has. She’s ours. Our dear daughter.”

“And you have a sibling, too, isn’t that right, Elizabeth? Vi—”

“Don’t call for him.” Caroline pushed at Alphonse’s arm to grasp his cuff. “Let me stay with Elizabeth a while longer. I’ll go for him later.”

* * *

Caroline crept into Victor’s room, slippers moving soundlessly over cherry floorboards. She held Elizabeth on her hip, unable to restrain her smile.

“Vic-tor,” Caroline sang. “Look here, see what Mamma has got. A present, just for you.”

Victor stirred in bed. Caroline perched on the edge of the mattress. When her weight creaked the frame, Victor sat upright, flinging covers. His eyes widened. They darted from Caroline to Elizabeth and back in stunned silence.

“Isn’t she pretty?” Caroline cooed. “Her name is Elizabeth. Look how precious she is in her little dress and bonnet. Don’t you think she’s perfect?”

Victor leaned closer. He kicked the blankets from his leg and moved closer, balancing on his hands and knees to examine Elizabeth. Elizabeth met his gaze for a moment before losing interest and staring at some corner of the ceiling. She put her fingers in her mouth and slurped idly. Caroline tugged her hand down.

“She’s all ours,” Caroline said. She played with one of Elizabeth’s shiny dark ringlets. “You’ll have to spend all your time with her, Victor. She could teach you excellent habits and rub away some of the roughness you’ve fabricated. She’ll be wonderful for you. You’ll help Mamma take care of her, won’t you?”

“She’s staying?”

“Of course. I’m her mother now.”

“She’s my sister?”

“Playmate,” Caroline said, squelching the idea. “And I expect that, by living and maturing alongside you, and surely growing to love you as family, Elizabeth may be your single chance at marriage. Mamma loves you dearly, and I only wish for you to be happily wed. The thought of nobody seeing past your ways troubles me, but sweet Elizabeth may provide a future for you yet.”

She delivered a grave soliloquy moreso than spoke to Victor. He was too young to understand. He certainly couldn’t anticipate the misery his life would hold as a consequence of his own behavior. Caroline only sought to enforce measures that could still guide him to happiness—and didn’t _her_ happiness matter, too? 

“Come to breakfast when you’re ready,” Caroline said, rising from the bed. The mattress creaked. She hoisted Elizabeth up more securely in her arms. Elizabeth rested her chin on the shelf of Caroline’s shoulder, watching Victor as Caroline toted her from the room.

* * *

“‘Lizabeth!” Victor’s shout split the air like lightning and made Caroline frizzle worse than a cat scoured backwards. Victor clattered into the kitchen and squared himself in front of the table. 

“You have to come outside. Henry and I found something.”

“Your shoes are dirty, darling,” Caroline said. She carried a bowl of apples to the table. 

“I’m sorry, Mamma,” Victor said breathlessly. His face flushed. He returned his attention to Elizabeth.

“Come on, ‘Lizabeth. Henry’s waiting.”

Elizabeth’s face cracked into an impish grin. She clambered from the chair and bolted with Victor to the door.

“Elizabeth, dear,” Caroline called. Elizabeth froze. “Why don’t you stay in here with Mamma for a while? She needs company while she bakes pies.”

Elizabeth cast a beseeching glance at Victor. She returned to the table and hefted herself back into the chair to kneel in front of the bowl. She looked into the mountain of apples in distaste.

“How come Victor can play?” she said at last.

“Victor wanted to be a boy,” Caroline said. The arrow carried on the light breeze. “Would you like to help with the pie? Mamma will let you knead the dough and spice the apples. Oh, see here, darling. Cinnamon smells nice, doesn’t it?”

* * *

Caroline didn’t intend to have another child.

She already had Elizabeth. Gentle, cheerful Elizabeth, the ideal of a daughter that all mothers envied. Caroline’s envisionment of motherhood had only ever consisted of her cradling the rosy, shiny-eyed girl. She’d never wanted a son. 

She’d been hopeful once before and was thrust out to be a spectacle for mockery.

But she had Elizabeth now.

* * *

He was born in July, a month too early, ruining plans.

He was beautiful. Dark hair, dark eyes, flat pale cheeks. He looked like Victor.

Caroline bunched him up in fresh cotton blankets and held him to her shoulder. The fragile cheek was cool against her skin. Alphonse named him Ernest.

The nurse faltered when she said that Ernest was frail. He wouldn’t cry. She warned Caroline that he might not live.

Perhaps that would be for the best.

The thought stunned Caroline. It came as clear and sonorous as if it’d been murmured into her ear. There was no devil funneling in the vile. It had risen from her own mind, where it’d been buried long before, now squirming to the forefront.

Surely she didn’t mean it. She hadn’t _wanted_ a little boy. She was content with Elizabeth. But that didn’t mean she cared nothing for Ernest. He was helpless; a tranquil, innocent creature relying on her gentle hands to nurture him. He couldn’t help that he looked like Victor.

She didn’t love him.

* * *

Ernest’s health shifted between abysmal and dire over the next few years. Despite the fact that he was little more than a sliver of meager existence, Victor and Elizabeth’s delight over a younger sibling had not only endured, but intensified.

They eagerly wrestled over responsibilities for Ernest’s care. Caroline humored them at first, and let them rock him in front of the hearth and offer him tastes of new foods. Elizabeth was naturally motherly. Caroline trusted her to tend Ernest as though he were her own. 

She often watched from behind her teacup as Victor and Elizabeth held Ernest, bundling him in their blankets, reading to him in pitchy singsong, spooning soup into his mouth and praising him for each spoonful he accepted. 

Caroline thought they looked like a married couple already. The picture warmed her, pleasant as a spring morning. They were a miniature husband and wife raising a burdensome child. They seemed to embrace the assigned roles without even realizing they were doing so.

Elizabeth was such a wonderful girl. Caroline sighed in a weary sort of serene satisfaction. Elizabeth had sacrificed so many childhood joys in favor of helping her mother. No longer did Elizabeth fritter away her days dressing dolls or traversing the garden in search of flowers to press or hovering over her chalkboard to draw by candlelight late into the evening. She was a small young mother, a housewife, just as Caroline had taught her. 

The years plodded peacefully along.

* * *

Caroline never planned for another child. The same familiar gnawing in the pit of her gut and the spells of assailing nausea reminded her that plans were fickle to nature.

Excitement had vacated long ago. She dressed herself, and sang as she brushed out her hair, and descended the stairs with the grace of royalty.

She had Elizabeth. As long as she had Elizabeth, her family was perfect. They were beautiful, secure and happy. They were an idyllic family, unspoiled by strife, a pride of Geneva. She owed that to Elizabeth.

She would tell Alphonse later.

* * *

William was born.

Dark curls, dark eyes, dimpled cheeks. He looked like Victor. He looked like Ernest.

Caroline kissed his face, over and over. He was beautiful.

She didn’t want another son. 

She had Elizabeth. Their family was perfect.

* * *

Caroline sat at the table, peeling carrots in silence. The monotonous motion lulled her. She watched Victor through her eyelashes. 

He knelt beside Ernest, guiding his finger across a well-loved page of Greek poetry. Ernest stumbled along, repeating the words Victor read. Their voices overlapped, soft and sweet. 

Beside them, William stared at the woodcut illustrations in the book. Victor’s attention drifted from reading. His smile deepened. On impulse, he scooped William up and hauled him into his lap to nuzzle his chubby cheek. William gave a bubbling shriek of a laugh. Ernest started, lost his place in reading, and promptly forgot as he looked at Victor and William. He laughed too and reached out to fiddle with one of William’s cowlicks.

Victor was seventeen. He’d grown handsome, in a mild and reserved way. Oversized coats lent a concealing blockiness to his figure that Caroline hated. He kept his long hair pulled back with the same jaunty velvet ribbons she’d tied on him years ago. It seemed a spite of the most wicked, bitter kind.

She smiled tenderly at him when he noticed her.

“Are we doing lessons or playing?” she teased.

“Lessons, Mamma. Ernest is doing incredibly well, whenever I manage to convince him to sit with a book; he’s picking up Greek and Latin as though they were numbers and colors. I suppose he’s striving to out-compete me.”

Victor put his hand atop Ernest’s head to tousle his hair. Ernest scrunched his nose and happily tilted up his chin to press into the touch.

“I’m smarter than you, Victor.”

“You would be if you keep working at it, dear.”

“William’ll be smarter than you, too.”

“I’m sure he will, if he applies himself with a dedication that you haven’t yet mustered.”

“I can muster. I just don’t care to.”

“We’ll see about changing that.” Victor gave one of Ernest’s curls a playful tug. “After you can read the _Odyssey_ without a lexicon, we’ll move to English and give you a real challenge.” 

Caroline hummed in amusement. “All right, that’s enough, darling. Where’s my favorite? I need some help with the vegetables for supper.”

Ernest glanced up at Victor. Victor bounced William on his knee absentmindedly.

“She’s upstairs,” he said. It came out too quiet. 

“Thank you, love. Keep up your practice, Ernest, won’t you? It’s wonderful to hear you recite. We’ll have Elizabeth read with you next time instead.”

“Yes, Mamma.”

Caroline gathered her skirts in her fists and rustled up the stairs. Ernest’s plaintive voice carried in the wide parlor.

“What’s wrong, Victor?”

* * *

The stairway seemed a hundred miles long. Caroline’s tongue was numb in her mouth and she was choking on dry leather. Her head was waterlogged. She crept down the steps with the impression that a hangman awaited her and the bottom step would give way beneath her feet.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Elizabeth has the scarlet fever?”

Her voice came from somewhere far away, floating in stale air. 

Victor and Ernest stared at her. The color drained from Victor’s face as though he’d just seen a murder. 

“She’s—” His voice cracked. “Mamma, I didn’t know. She only told me she was tired. I couldn’t have known she . . . .”

Realization struck. He pulled William closer in a jolt. 

“How is she?” he said, ashen. 

“She’s terribly flushed and hoarse. Her poor pretty arms, all rough with rash . . . and she’s yet so lovely . . . I’ll bring her supper early.” Caroline turned for the kitchen.

“Mamma, don’t,” Victor implored. “Don’t tend to her yourself. Let one of the nurses do it. They know best how to treat the sick.”

“Nobody else knows how to care for my Elizabeth properly. Can I entrust a stranger with supplying the comfort of my darling, my favorite, the child I’ve raised myself? Could they ever truly know what she needs, or how to read her gestures when she’s too polite to admit she’s pained?”

Victor stammered. “T—then, Mamma, let me—”

“No, Victor. I can’t allow you to catch fever too, and spread illness to your brothers. Ernest couldn’t possibly survive it; we both know that. No, darling, stay away from Elizabeth’s room.” 

Victor watched in stunned silence as Caroline left.

* * *

Caroline lay swaddled in blankets that couldn’t ward off the black chill that burrowed deep in her marrow. She stared at the ceiling. Nurses milled in hushed conversation around her. She wanted to turn her head. A feather quill poking through the pillowcase bit into the side of her neck. The longer she stared at the ceiling, the more nauseatingly the rafters rippled.

They ushered Elizabeth in. Caroline knew her light, careful footsteps. Other shoes clattered behind her. 

Victor immediately knelt by Caroline’s bed. He fidgeted, reaching toward her then faltering, before finally tucking his fingers into her hand just as he always had as a child. They were soft and small and cold. Caroline didn’t squeeze. He was seventeen. How long had it been since she last held his hand?

Caroline sought Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth, dearest girl.”

“I’m here, Mamma.”

“You’ve never doubted that I love you, have you?”

“Never have I once.” Elizabeth’s voice trembled. Wrinkles bunched beneath her lips and her eyes glazed over like mirrors.

“And you know I would always choose what’s best for you?”

“Of course, Mamma. I know that.”

Caroline brought Elizabeth’s hand to Victor’s. She pressed them together, clasping them fervently. She moved her other hand atop their entwined ones and pressed as if to seal them.

“Then you know why you must marry. It’s the only glimmer of hope I cling to, after so many previous hopes shattered. My soul will never rest peacefully if you don’t promise that you’ll fulfill my single wish. I’ve never asked anything of you, my darling. I’ve invested my life in you, obliging your every whim and educating you in the ways of mannerly young creatures. Please promise me.”

Victor sucked in a deep breath that hissed. “Mamma—”

“If you promise me, Victor, I’ll forgive you. I’ll forgive everything you’ve done, darling. You can cherish every future endeavor, every joy, knowing that Mamma loves you despite.”

Victor’s eyes squinted and overflowed. He ducked his head. His shoulders tightened and a couple of tears dropped with twin plats on the quilt. He nodded in a jerk. 

“I’m—I’m sorry, Mamma—I promise—” His voice broke behind his teeth, high and gooey in the facsimile of a sniveling schoolgirl’s. 

Victor’s sob kicked the last brick from the foundation of Elizabeth’s resolve. She slumped forward and choked. 

“I promise, too,” she said, muffled, as though she were speaking through a mouthful of wool.

Caroline clutched Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed. Victor’s hiccup-stilted cries and Elizabeth’s wails faded into an echo, a dying drone in a dark icy cave.

* * *

Alphonse asked Victor if he could honor his mother once and wear a black velvet mourning dress to the funeral. 

Victor stood by his mother’s grave in his crisp satin stock and breeches and double-breasted coat and wondered if she still loved him.

* * *

“I didn’t tell you this when your mother was here. I knew it would have burdened her terribly to hear it, and her soft heart would ache with perpetual worry over her dear child. University will not be kind to you, Victor.”

Victor sat on his pine-wood luggage trunk. His buckled shoes dangled above the floor. He stared through his father, through the window, and far past. He felt vaguely that he were watching himself from a distance. 

“This home has been a shelter. We’ve given you freedoms that most families would not allow. We’ve relaxed our standards and faced bitter resentment as a consequence. I retreated from my cherished public offices and sought to educate my children at home to avoid the sting of opposition you have ignited.”

Victor sat like a lump. He swung his leg. 

“I love you dearly, Victor, and I respect your decisions. But I wish to warn you that you will receive neither tenderness nor understanding outside these walls.”

“Yes, Papa,” Victor said. His voice was deeper. It burned the back of his throat. “You and Mamma chose to send me to Ingolstadt, after all. I wondered if, perhaps, it was an effort to shuffle me aside and polish away some tarnish.”

Alphonse drew himself up to full height. He towered tall and cold as Mont Blanc. He was an imposing statue, a strange effigy. His eyes cut Victor.

“Victor Frankenstein.” It was eerily quiet and composed.

“I’m sorry, Papa.”

“You know you have never been a tarnish. Your mother and I never considered your education an opportunity to be rid of you. I cherish you as my son. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Papa.”

Silence lay thick as a coat of old butter.

“Did Mamma ever feel the same?”

“Sending you to Ingolstadt was a joint decision, Victor.”

Their tired, pinched gazes met. In that moment, Victor knew his father avoided answering the question he’d really asked. 

Looking at Alphonse was an excruciating struggle. Victor warded off the slicing icy blade with his own. He lowered his head. Numbness crept. His ponytail slipped across his shoulder. The big velvet bow scratched against his collar.

“Elizabeth was always her favorite.”

Alphonse didn’t answer.

* * *

Victor stepped through the front door. His heels clicking over the floor banged like gunshots and echoed up to the high ceiling. Sunlight peered through the windows and dust motes sifted like lazy gnats. Everything was clean and stark. The air itched and smelled of linen and library. 

He trudged. Light winked off his shoe buckles. 

His father’s old Greek poetry books and tiny portraits lined the shelf by the fireplace. They hadn’t been rearranged in six years. 

Victor’s throat tightened. A miniature he hadn’t seen before was the crushing centerpiece. Smaller than the others, but shiny and new.

He caressed the cold, intricate frame. The delicate gouache portrait of the young boy looked so much like him. The requiem captured William’s apple cheeks and doe eyes. The picture blurred. Victor stared. Tears tracked down his face to gather in sticky drops beneath his chin. 

Shoes scrunched over the floor behind him. Victor couldn’t turn. An unfamiliar voice was hollow in the room.

“Victor! You’re home—”

Victor kept his hand on the portrait. His fingers were frozen in place, stiff and sore. The footsteps stopped at his side. Something brushed his elbow and an insistent hand took his sleeve. In increments, Victor tore his gaze from the picture.

Ernest stood beside him. He was taller than Victor now. Sunshine and fresh air had rouged his cheeks and filled them out over the last few years. He looked healthy, and nothing like the frail child Victor had coddled so long ago.

Something in Victor crumbled away. He wanted to cry. He assessed Ernest with chilly distance.

“We’ve all missed you,” Ernest said. His fingers slid down Victor’s sleeve. “I only wish you could’ve returned under happier circumstances. If you’d come back three months earlier, we would have celebrated, and William would—”

Ernest broke off and swallowed the words. He glanced at the miniature. The lines around his eyes softened. He looked sixteen. 

“That’s such a lovely picture, isn’t it?” His voice trembled on the last note. “He was such an angel. No matter how despondent one felt, one smile from the dear little thing could cheer you back to perfect spirits. Oh, Victor. He didn’t remember you, but he knew he loved you. I asked Elizabeth on one occasion if we had any miniatures of you, or even of the family together, but . . . .” 

It hung awkwardly like a lopsided map on a crooked nail. Victor smoothed his thumb over the ivory frame. William’s mischievous eyes pierced him.

“There were never any,” Victor said. “Mamma never entreated for one to be made.” 

“Mamma wouldn’t have done that,” Ernest said nervously. It wavered. His face flushed. “She had ones of the rest of us. And she loved you just the same.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Ernest. Don’t cry like that, dear. I hate to be welcomed home with tears and sorrow. It makes me wish I hadn’t come.” 

Ernest clamped his mouth shut so hard that his teeth clicked. He stared with Victor at William’s portrait. His chin quivered.

“He died without knowing what I look like, didn’t he?”

Ernest’s face crumpled. He turned abruptly to cram himself into Victor’s arms, knocking him back a few scuffling steps. He hid his nose in Victor’s shoulder and sobbed like he was ten again.

* * *

Lake Geneva was placid. Moonlight glimmered off the glassy gray water. The boat slid without so much as a jolt. Ripples scattered and broke the moon into a million pieces of gold.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” Elizabeth said. Her wedding gown rustled when she leaned closer. The faint lines around her lips and nose added an undue decade to her life. 

Victor swallowed. In the distance, fog curled like coy slender cats around the spruces. The scent of evergreen spiced the air. 

“Would it have been wicked of us to break a terrible promise?” he said at last.

Elizabeth watched the breeze ruffle her skirt. 

“I never thought so.”

“Mamma died so long ago, but her touch still lingers. It hurts sometimes. I’m not quite certain why. Our family was so content.” 

“We mustn’t speak ill of her, Victor,” Elizabeth said.

“Why did we keep that promise?”

Elizabeth looked skyward. Stars caught in her eyes.

“One might think breaking a promise to the dead would be easier. But I’ve been afraid. Were she still alive, I would have found the courage to protest. We both could have. You were afraid, too.”

Something scraped in Victor’s throat like a bite of stale biscuit. He glared hard at the mirror water surface. 

“You seem afraid so often now. Oh, Victor. It’s over. It’s all right. We don’t have to uphold a pretense when we’re alone. This wicked dress means nothing to me but heartache." 

“I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” Victor wanted to whisper, but couldn’t.

“We promised Mamma we would marry. But we never promised our love could be intimate. You’re forever my brother and my dearest friend.”

“I love you, dear sister.” The breeze swept some of Victor’s hair into his face. He let it. “I wish you weren’t forced to bear the weight of this misery.”

“Your father was overjoyed,” Elizabeth said softly. “He’s endured so much suffering. Victor, for the sake of others, let us be grateful to give him some semblance of happiness again.”

“I hoped our marriage could let me atone. I’ve failed our parents in many ways. They were ever so good. But somehow, after it all, I feel no exultation or relief.”

“I understand, dear. But don’t foster misgivings in your heart. This changes nothing between us.”

A dragonfly sputtered to a stop on a leaf that bobbed over the waves trailing beside the boat. Victor stretched his hand toward it. The dragonfly rattled away.

“You’re too gentle, Elizabeth,” he said. “I know you well. You’re consoling yourself above all and maintaining optimism when I can’t muster it. What thoughts have you kept hidden?”

Elizabeth faltered. Her shoulders hitched beneath her shawl.

“It’s nothing. Oh, let’s not talk of your mother anymore. I’m having a dreadful chill, as though ghosts are listening as we discuss something we shouldn’t.”

“I don’t mean to burden you. I only have one further thing to ask on the subject. Then we shall forget it, and turn our thoughts to more pleasant things.”

“That’s all right.” 

A flock of crows sailed past the blue clouds to settle into the waving treetops. Victor stared until his eyes flooded. 

“Did Mamma ever mention to you why . . . why she wanted us to be wed?”

He finished on a mumble. He was suddenly sleepy. Water sloshed beneath the boat. He wanted to go home.

Elizabeth’s lips turned downward. Wrinkles lumped. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Her mouth slackened in a silent, strangling sob.

“She told me about you, Victor.” She mouthed the words more than said them. “She told me everything.”

* * *

Victor sat by his father’s side. No warmth radiated from him. He was marble. He was stone.

Memories flooded Victor. He found himself tugged between two times that ran together like ink under spilled water. His thoughts drifted. He’d sat in the same place when William died. Was he mourning William or Elizabeth? Was he twenty-two or twenty-five? Was he visiting home from university for the first time in six years or was he a widower?

Alphonse didn’t ask him to wear the mourning gown. 

“You blame me, don’t you, Papa?” Victor said. His tongue was numb. 

Alphonse’s eyes fixed somewhere on the horizon. They were made of glass.

“We trusted you to take care of Elizabeth. She was yours, Victor.”

“She was Mamma’s.”

Alphonse chewed the inside of his cheek like sinew. 

“It wasn’t your mother’s responsibility to protect her,” he said at last. “You took that on yourself the day you accepted her hand.”

“She was Mamma’s favorite.”

“She loved you, Victor,” Alphonse said bitterly. “She insisted from the moment you were born that you were perfect.”

“I know. She loved Elizabeth more. Elizabeth was everything I’m not.”

“Comparing yourself to Elizabeth is a fool’s endeavor.”

“That’s all Mamma ever did.” 

It dropped like a cannonball and resonated. The crackling leaves overhead stilled. Victor swallowed. 

“Your mother is dead, Victor.” Alphonse’s voice was deep as a well and slow. “Your mother is dead; your brother is dead; your wife is dead. Is that somehow the fault of another? Of her? I don’t want to hear any further grievances against Caroline, do you understand?”

Heat flooded. Something rang deep in Victor’s skull.

“Caroline isn’t here to stand in her own defense as you proudly oppose that rebellious spirit to her memory. If you hadn’t broken her heart, Victor, perhaps she would have turned Elizabeth over safely to her stepmother, and she certainly wouldn’t have given her to you as a wife. You alone are the one who forced those decisions as we struggled to pick up the shattered pieces. If it weren’t for you, Elizabeth would still be—”

Alphonse froze. He heaved for breath that came out in long labored huffs. He blinked as if waking from a dream. The words settled like dust over the sodden ground, among the daisies and crabgrass. 

Victor pulled his coat more tightly around himself. The wind was cold and touched him beneath his collar. 

He stood from the bench and walked away. Flecks of rain sprinkled in the breeze.

* * *

Walton stroked Victor’s hair as he spoke. The big gloved hand passing over his head was soothing and recalled to Victor far-away feelings of childhood. He rubbed his cheek against the rough canvas pillow and sighed. It left him feeling empty and small. 

“You’ve slept the day away,” Walton whispered. His thumb smoothed back one of Victor’s curls. He tucked it behind Victor’s ear and let his fingertips skim along his jaw. 

“I have some oatmeal and biscuits for you. I admit we’re generous with butter rations in your case.” Walton hummed fondly. “It’s brought color back to your face.”

“Has it?”

“Indeed it has.” Walton traced his finger along the crest of Victor’s cheek. “It’s restored you wonderfully. A sparkle has come into your eyes, and you’ve gotten all the rosy blush of a schoolgirl. But even in wreck, you’ve been beautiful.” 

Victor wrapped the blankets around his fists and tugged them closer. He squeezed his eyes shut. His shoulders ached. 

“You can’t comprehend the gravity of your words, Captain. I only request that you do not lavish your praise upon me so freely. Not of that sort.”

Walton pressed his hand to the blanket and smoothed it in silence for a smothering minute. His hand skimmed Victor’s arm, up and down with placating slowness. Static prickled beneath Victor’s sleeve.

“I apologize, Victor. I would hate to discomfit you. You’ve said yourself that you know the passion that can overtake a man when he’s in the presence of a friend.”

“I’ve been well acquainted with such a feeling long ago.”

“Then, Victor, you can understand my sentiments toward you. The gentle tones of your voice and your sweetness in appearance alone renews my fortitude.” 

Victor beseeched Walton. His heart weighed like an anchor. “You wish to have known me in my better years. I have nothing to offer anymore.”

“Better years?” Walton bent closer. He cupped his palm to Victor’s face to shade his eyes from the flickering candlelight. He watched him as intently as the crewmates scanned the arctic expanse outside. 

“I’m tempted to believe you’re timeless,” Walton said at last, after an endless appraisal. He breathed as if spellbound, entranced by something Victor couldn’t see. Victor stared back at him. 

“You’re perfect the way you are, Victor.” It was a reverent murmur as Walton caressed his hair. “You’re entirely perfect. Nothing you’ve told me has convinced me otherwise.”

Victor’s ribs creaked under a crushing weight that bore down on him like a heavy knee against his breastbone. Above them, on deck, a brass bell clanged. Seven tolls. Each one made Victor’s head pound. The midnight watch was almost over. A chill crawled like bugs up his legs, biting and creeping.

Perfect. He was perfect.

He was suddenly a child again, enveloped in his mother’s tender arms, surrounded by her floral cloud of perfume and her crooning soprano, and he knew that Mamma’s perfect Victor never truly existed, and neither did Papa’s, or Walton’s, or anyone’s, because there was no perfect Victor. 

He buried his face in his hands and pushed them against his eyelids until neon green and blue starbursts lit up like fireworks, and gagged on a sob that tasted like wormwood.


End file.
